The Archer
Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.
War isn't all blood and iron and death, she once believed. There were times when it could get sweet, and the sweetness she had beheld in those moments was probably the most pure and tangible emotion she had experienced in all of her short life. Perhaps lying there in Achilles' arms she had been the most alive, centred in a camp of soldiers whose livelihoods thrived on death – such a swirling mass of contradictions. War isn't all blood and iron and death, it was true, and there were times when it could be nostalgic. The memories she had faced when running up the sandy plains of the beach before Troy, running from the Greek camp in face of her dear cousin's death, were tactile to her. The time she has passed and the life she has lived has been imbued with the essence of war, so in considering war, she must consider herself. By now, the two seem inseparable, and she is unsure of where she ends and the war begins. Perhaps even more so now, when her image is the guiding light to the Carthaginians, the banner by which they embolden themselves to join the fray, the light they see when they fall into the dust and their soul is taken down into Hades.
War isn't all blood and iron and death, but the moments of blood and iron and death exist nonetheless, and they are hardy moments that test the resilience of the spirit. Briseis feels it now, a pressure upon her spirit, as she comes back to herself—sitting in the hold of a ship.
It is not a time to make philosophy; it is a time of war.
There are trampling sounds above, not entirely out of the ordinary, and soon they become hastened footsteps travelling down the steep steps into the hold of a ship. The footsteps belong to a Carthaginian footsoldier, his face unremarkable save for the streaks of blood and sand that cake his skin and armour. It is not a glorious sight. It is a piteous one; the man shakes, his skin quivering even out of battle, and his eyes are permanently widened in a blood frenzy. He lays eyes on Briseis and nods, holding out his arm and gesturing wildly. His sputters are inelegant, and characteristic of the moment they are trapped in.
"My lady! Please, you must leave the ship now! The Greeks are advancing, they will retake the shore, surely—you must leave the ship! They will burn you alive! The archers have lit their arrows!" When she does not move immediately he rushes forward, more sputtered apologies running forth, his fingers tightly grasping her smooth forearm. They leave faint smears of blood on her skin now, the taint of battle upon Briseis as well, and she loses her composure as he pulls her to the stairs.
"Where am I to go?" The soldier does not answer, but his fingers are strong around her wrist so that if she stopped her following footsteps, his jarring movements would surely break her arm. Her feet stumble inelegantly around the wood of the stairs, her arm turned at an awkward angle, but the soldier does not care. He pulls her up, the light from the day breaking now against the white of her skin and the blood smears on her arm. "Sir! Where am I to—"
The soldier whirls around to Briseis, and finally meets her eyes. It is she who now shies away, as if the light in this man's eyes were a kind of knowledge she does not wish to possess. He breathes heavily, and tells her, "Lady, the Greeks are burning the ship. I must rejoin my comrades, and die fighting. Take cover where you will…" He looks her up and down, his eyes scraping unpleasantly over her body, and then sneers very subtly, "…This is more your land then mine, perhaps they will protect you. Perhaps not."
They stand on the abandoned ship deck, oars askew and haphazard over the unsanded wood, and the sight upon the shore finally makes an impression upon Briseis. Poor, sweet Briseis, who thinks she knows something about war.
The soldier leaves her, her arm released and dead at her side. He runs to the bow of the boat and jumps out, the ring of his sword surely joining the rest upon the reddened sand below. But she does not notice, because she is transfixed by the sight before her, and remains so for some time. It is a primal sight, one of blood sinking into the sand, and blood darkening as it dries upon the armour of the soldiers. Men, with their limbs streaked by grime and sweat and sand and blood, men all with their respective histories, all men with wives and children or lovers and friends…like a net, it seems to Briseis, as she visualizes the impact upon the world even this one battle will have, beyond the battlefield. The iron and metal of their armour and weaponry, making deadly ringing noises through the air. She watches death; men falling and attempting to revive themselves, and others just lying so very still.
The Greeks have a prowess in them that overpowers the Carthaginians. Gone is the pride of the people from that faraway exotic land, the banners and standards bearing Briseis' own image long since trampled underfoot. Greeks, with their superior experience and weapons make the foreigners looks like ignorant savages—and Briseis does not know who she wishes will emerge victorious, though she certainly knows the reality of the situation. Despite what they think, she is no lady of luck, no vassal of favour sent from the gods. And even if she was, Briseis feels as though she does not want either side to win, for either way her situation is hopeless. A new sense of nihilism pervades her; a desperation borne of the events back in Troy that had not hit her until this very moment.
She has been wandering in the desert too long.
And as the Greeks approach the ships and the sails begin to catch fire, Briseis can almost see her patron Apollo, the Golden Archer, come down from the heights of Mount Olympus in great and long strides, drop to a knee and draw his silver bow. The men fall around and before her, and in her mind, Briseis sees this as Apollo's final retribution on her infidelity to him – a tangible vengeance. The cries of the soldiers and the dying fill her ears.
Blindly and out of fear, she runs—in no particular direction. At first, she escapes from the gunwales of the ship, and when Briseis finds herself on the sand of the battlefield with the dead at her feet, she runs again towards the wisps of green grass she can discern where the beach ends and Greece begins. Through the battling men she runs—through the sprays of blood and arrows—as if fearless, or the closest thing to fearless, because she has almost abandoned her fear in face of the nothingness of her present that could swallow her.
Unfortunately, the soldiers around her are not in accordance with that fearlessness. A bloodied solder of Carthage, still standing, grasps her arm and again smears more blood on her skin, atop that which the other soldier smeared there first. The wildness in his eyes frightens Briseis and she screams shortly, pulling back to no avail. "My lady," the soldier pants at her, "what are you doing?"
She opens her mouth to speak, almost finding relief in the easiness of answering a question. But Apollo will not allow her even this small comfort in the devastation of his exacting vengeance, and the soldier's life leaves through his eyes when another sword pierces through his armour and body, the point emerging from his chest. His dead body falls upon the sand, the blood joining the rest, and Briseis' eyes meet those that surely belong to a Greek soldier. She prays inwardly that this might be some Greek man she recognizes…but no.
The Greek looks her up and down, his eyes slanting quickly over the richness and value of his clothing and appearance, and he grins, a delighted sound coming from deep within his chest. Briseis screams and tries to pull back, but now for the third time, fingers close over her arm and she is unable to pull away. The Greek soldier drags her through the sand with one hand, laughing maniacally with the fervour of battle in his mind, while his other arm continues to slash his way through the melee of battling soldiers. Struggling; twisting and turning however she can, Briseis only succeeds in wrenching her joints and her bones, pain sharpening its way through her limbs in cracks of sickening yellow light. Her energy leaves her quickly through her struggles, and soon the Greek is dragging a near-limp woman by a single hand.
They reach the threshold of the beach, where the grasses come out slightly before curving sharply down into the sand to form an overhang. The battle is on the beach solely, and there are few people in this area. The soldier heaves her around and throws Briseis into the sand before him, the overhang of the grass cutting the light of Apollo somewhat. Far too weak to make much movement, she can only watch as the soldier throws down his weapons and struggles with the clasps of his armour. Briseis only groans slightly, a sad and pathetic sound she has heard only from very sick, diseased and dying people, unable to accept what is happening.
And then, in that moment, it is as though the gods intervene.
A new voice, fresh and strong and in lilting, familiar Greek, sounds out to them—or in particular, to her Greek tormentor. "You! Soldier!" He turns wildly to peer at his surroundings, searching for the owner of the voice, when it sounds again—closer. "What person have you there?"
The voice seems to come from above, in her delirium, Briseis almost believes it to be the voice of a god. But it is not so; a man jumps down from the grassy overhang to stand before the soldier. The owner of the voice is more richly dressed and decorated than the soldier, and she correctly assumes him to be a Greek officer. His face is unfamiliar as well. Closing her eyes in extreme weariness, Briseis can only listen to their brief dialogue:
"What woman is this?"
"Sir, I found her on the beach—I assumed her to be spoils of Carthage—"
"—That is not for you to decide. The enemy has little reason for bringing women to these shores, especially wealthy ones. She must be important."
"My lord—"
"I will take charge of her from here; you will return to your post, soldier."
"But my lord—"
"You are dismissed, soldier." The finality in the officer's tone leaves no room for question, and when Briseis next opens her eyes, the officer is observing her closely and the soldier is nowhere to bee seen. Kneeling before her, he takes her face in his hands and peers at her, his fingers tracing the lines of her face as if he were examining a new purchase. When she attempts to pull away he is ready, a dagger flashing out of nowhere and its blade digging into her neck. The officer breathes softly, his voice a deadly calm. "You will give me no trouble, or I shall cut your throat." He tilts her head up, and shakes her firmly until Briseis' eyes meet his own, and she nods shakily.
Satisfied, he sheathes the weapon somewhere on his person and hauls her up. Silently, they both clamber up onto the grass overhang, and before Briseis can regain her bearings, he is pulling her across the plains towards a collection of tents. She understands. She is being brought to the commanders.
Halfway there, the officer halts and turns, taking her face in his hands once more. He peers at her more closely, and then breathes, "It is your face upon the banners of the barbarians, is it not?" When Briseis says nothing, he only nods to himself and then speaks again, "You look more Greek than Carthaginian, I can give you that." They start again for the tents.
After taking a mere five paces, Briseis stops uncertainly, wavering on her feet. The officer turns back to glare at her, and perhaps threaten her with his knife again, but instead, her finds her passed out upon the ground at his feet, her skin clammy and cool. He sighs, kneels, and picks her up into his arms, carrying her the rest of the short distance into the grandest tent in the camp.
Nodding to the guards, he passes through the entry flaps to the tent to be greeted with the sight of a strong-looking man sitting upon a stool, the wound in his leg being treated and sewn by two soldiers. Laying Briseis upon the ground, he says, "My lord Diomedes, I give you the patron woman of the invaders."
All three of the new men, both the soldiers treating the wound and the lord himself, turn to stare at the officer and at the woman on the ground. The lord—Diomedes—makes a sound, and then speaks. "Is that so?" He says, looking quizzically at the small form of the woman before him. "Strange."
Suddenly, one of the men treating his wound makes a strangled noise from within his throat, his blue eyes flashing at the sight of the woman. "My lord…" He begins, and then trails off uncertainly, his eyes never leaving the form upon the ground.
Diomedes turns to regard the soldier directly, and then answers, "Yes, Eudorus? Do not worry, you may return to the fray within moments."
Coughing uncertainly and standing, Eudorus pauses before speaking uncertainly, "This woman…"
Both the officer and the king look at him curiously, "Yes?"
He looks them both directly in the eyes. "She belongs to Achilles."
Unsuspecting of the drama around her, Briseis sleeps in fever dreams, her mind filled with visions of blood, of banners, and of the Great and Golden Archer, methodically drawing his bow and slaying any soldier who might stand before her.